CHAPTER 23 Wren
CHAPTER 23
Wren
‘Blackthorn – an unassuming shrub with long spikes prone to causing severe bleeding. While the tree itself is not toxic, its bark and thorns contain bacteria that cause infection and blood poisoning’
– An Encyclopaedia of Deadly Plants
D REVENOR WAS BUSTLING with activity the next morning. Kipp had been right: there were more than just alchemists filling its tapestry-lined halls. Researchers laden with piles of books, groundskeepers with barrows of freshly turned earth, and harried-looking scribes, hands stained with ink and quills tucked behind their ears, all went about their business.
As they passed through the foyer, Wren eyed the vessel of glimmering black garnet stones, the points system a blank canvas in the final moments before the academy swallowed them into its chaos.
‘This way, Embervale.’ Torj’s voice brought her back to the task at hand: getting to Evermere Forest for her first lesson – lifelore.
Wren was loath to admit that were it not for the towering Warsword at her side and his large hand at the small of her back, she might have been swept away in the rush, or panicked by the crush of bodies in the halls. Torj’s presence created a barrier around her, as no one dared to bump into him or cross his path. At all times there was a buffer of several inches between her and the next person, and whenever that gap was compromised, a glare from the silver-haired warrior was all it took for the distance to be recovered.
To his credit, the Warsword didn’t seem overly happy about their situation either. She could practically feel the crackle of his contempt to match her own. His jaw was permanently clenched, his brows drawn together in a scowl.
Kipp, on the other hand, was practically beaming – far too cheerful for her liking. Cal had left to be briefed on guarding Professor Vulpine upon his arrival, but Kipp was here, chattering away. ‘Perhaps it wouldn’t kill you to make some new friends,’ he said as they passed the grand entrance, its towering stone walls adorned with faded tapestries, opening up to reveal a vast hall beyond. ‘I know not everyone can match up to me, but still...’ He glanced around at the countless people watching her. ‘Might be harder than I thought...for you.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ she muttered. Her stomach was churning with nerves, and she wasn’t sure she’d made the right call by skipping the morning meal. It was too late to change that now.
The warm press of the Bear Slayer’s hand at her back grounded her again. The Warsword navigated the academy grounds with ease, almost as though he’d done a practice run sometime before. Wren watched him from the corner of her eye warily, becoming instantly aware that she wasn’t the only one doing so. The lightning-kissed warrior garnered nearly as much attention as she did, though of a different nature entirely. It was just as it had been on the Sea Serpent’s Destiny : women – and men – of all ages gaping openly at Torj, some of them shamelessly ogling the muscles shifting with every stride.
Wren reminded herself to unclench her jaw. They were free to admire whatever parts of him they so desired. She had no claim on him, nor did she want one. She only wished they wouldn’t be so tastelessly obvious about it.
The academy grounds were split into quadrants, and Wren and Torj passed by two of them on their way to the northern perimeter – one for the greenhouses and one for the gardens – but she hardly got a glimpse as they hurried to her first lesson. Within Evermere Forest was an eerie grove, bordered by gnarled trees that seemed to twist and reach out with their branches, as though trying to ensnare unsuspecting prey. Each step Wren took was muffled by the thick carpet of dead leaves and moss, while the canopy above was dense, allowing only slivers of pale sunlight to penetrate the gloom. A thick, unnatural silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves – and pained moans.
In the centre of the grove, suspended between two ancient, moss-covered trees, hung a man. His arms were outstretched, bound tightly with coarse rope that dug into his flesh. A rag was stuffed into his mouth, muffling any cries for help. His head lolled forwards, but the slow rise and fall of his chest indicated that he was still alive.
Unease bloomed in Wren’s gut, goosebumps racing across her skin as she glanced up at Torj. If he was surprised to find a man strung up between the trees here, he didn’t show it.
Swallowing the hard lump in her throat, Wren spotted another figure at the edge of the treeline: a straight-backed middle-aged man in all black, a belt similar to Wren’s around his waist. Indifferent to the nearby prisoner, he didn’t speak, simply watched as more students began to gather before him.
‘You’re on your own, Embervale,’ Torj muttered, starting to peel away from the group.
‘Wait,’ she ordered, reaching for her belt. Brow furrowed, the Warsword surprisingly did as she bid. ‘Take this.’ She offered him the pouch she’d made last night.
‘What is it?’ he asked, turning it over in his large hands; it was smaller than his palm.
‘An antidote kit.’ Pulling the cord around it so it opened like a book, she revealed several small vials within. ‘For some of the most common poisons.’
A flicker of amusement ghosted across the Bear Slayer’s lips. ‘You worried about me, Embers?’
‘Hardly. But I could have used it last night. Makes sense for you to have one just in case.’
‘Here I was thinking you liked being the one to patch me up. Or have you truly forgotten the first time we met?’
Wren forced a shrug. ‘Must have been an inconsequential day,’ she said lightly.
‘Whatever you say,’ Torj replied, eyes glinting as he pocketed the kit and dropped back from Wren and the class.
Wren’s side felt instantly cold.
Another gurgle of pain escaped the man bound between the trees, but she forced herself to scan her cohort. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting when it came to her peers, but it wasn’t the array of ages that surrounded her now. The faces staring back at her ranged from those in their early teen years to a woman who must have been in her seventies. This was no starting school.
There were a few semi-familiar faces from the gala: the white-haired man who’d been smoking several cigarillos at once, and the man Torj had nearly choked to death with his war hammer in the hallway afterwards. Young or old, the glint in every eye was one of determination, of resilience, and every one of them seemed to meet her gaze with a look of challenge.
What right do you have to be here? they seemed to say.
She’d damn well show them soon enough.
As she surveyed her peers, she met the eyes of a woman around her own age, her striking red hair braided down the side of her face, in the same style as Thea often wore hers. Wren recognized her as the woman who’d been splashing around in the fountain with Kipp at the gala. She offered Wren a grin now, which Wren instantly turned away from in a panic. How long had it been since she’d made a friend? She’d forgotten how.
Their teacher made no move to acknowledge the prisoner, but instead motioned for their attention, holding a crumpled scroll in his hands. ‘Good morning, novices. I am Hardim Norlander, Master of Lifelore – the study of living things for alchemical application. You may call me Hardim. Before we delve into the first of the four pillars of alchemy, we must address a matter of utmost importance. As you were made aware at last night’s gala, all novices at Drevenor are required to take an oath of secrecy. If you break your oath, the consequences are dire.’ He gave them a meaningful look. ‘This is your last chance to turn back. For those of you without the backbone to commit wholly to the path of alchemy, this is your final opportunity to leave.’
Several people flushed at the mention of the festivities, and Wren felt a cold sweat break out across her own back, but no one moved.
Hardim surveyed them with an unflinching stare, holding out a curling yellowed scroll. ‘You are to prick your index finger and press a dot of blood to this piece of parchment, which reads as follows:
I hereby pledge myself to Drevenor.
I will delve into the dark abyss of knowledge and guard the secrets entrusted to me.
With my body as a shield, my mind as a blade, I will not hesitate to sacrifice.
In my own blood this oath is made.
And with it, I swear fealty, until the academy releases me, or until death claims me.
I am marked forevermore as a steward of this ancient art.
I will protect it and harness it, with all that I am and will be.’
Wren took a pocketknife from her belt and pricked her finger without hesitation. She was the first to come forward to press her blood to the parchment.
When everyone had completed the oath, some with more hesitancy than others, the master rolled up the sheet of parchment and turned to them once more.
‘This oath is usually taken in the grandness of our great hall; however, the consequences of breaking this vow are not grand. They are severe. Life-altering. They leave a stain on one’s soul.’
A knot of tension tightened between Wren’s ribs, and she fought to remain still beneath the weight of Hardim’s words.
‘Some of you may have noticed that we are not alone,’ he said.
As if in answer, the prisoner gave a muffled cry behind his gag, the ropes around his limbs creaking as he struggled against their hold.
Hardim took a deep breath, rubbing his temples before he motioned to the bound man. ‘You are about to witness what happens when you break the oath.’ The prisoner trembled from head to toe as Hardim continued, his voice stripped of all emotion. ‘Meet Bertram. He is an adept who has been with us for three and a half years.’
Hardim approached the prisoner tentatively, as though he’d rather be anywhere else. He removed the gag from Bertram’s mouth.
‘Three and a half years,’ he repeated. ‘And recently, you did what?’
‘I didn’t mean to, I just—’
‘You broke your oath of secrecy, correct?’
‘I—’
‘Am I correct?’ Hardim pressed.
The next word left Bertram’s lips in a whisper. ‘Yes.’
Hardim surveyed their cohort. ‘Your fellow alchemist must now face the consequences.’
The lifelore master produced an object from a bag at his feet. It was no bigger than one of Wren’s textbooks and looked like a tapestry fitted to a frame, only the threads that passed across its surface seemed to shimmer.
‘This is a memory weave. Our Master of Design will tell you more about it at a later date—’
‘Please,’ Bertram stammered. ‘I don’t want to lose my—’
‘You broke the oath,’ Hardim said simply. He held a small vial of green liquid to Bertram’s mouth. ‘Drink.’
‘No – I can’t. Please. I’ll never—’
‘There is only one outcome here, Bertram.’ Hardim did not lower the vial.
Sweat poured from the adept’s brow.
‘Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,’ the Master of Lifelore warned.
With fear and devastation etched on his face, Bertram tipped his head back, allowing Hardim to pour the concoction onto his tongue.
Wren watched, her insides twisting. Almost instantly, Bertram’s eyes went glassy and unfocused, all notion of awareness extinguished by the tonic’s grip on his mind.
With cold efficiency, Hardim held up the strange object, plucking a thread from its latticework and fixing it to Bertram’s temple.
The fibre rippled and pulled. And suddenly, Wren could see images drifting from Bertram’s now convulsing form.
Shimmering memories forced their way to the surface: a gala, not unlike the one she’d attended last night; potions bubbling away on a workbench; a vibrant garden of herbs, as far as the eye could see; a maze of deep green...Then came Bertram’s agonized howls.
Wren gasped. He could feel it.
Around her, several people started. A wave of nausea hit her like a blow to the gut. Wren’s fingernails dug crescents into her palms as she forced herself to watch the brutal unravelling of Bertram’s mind. At Hardim’s coaxing, the memories rose faster and faster to the surface, meticulously weaving themselves into an intricate mesh across the object the Master of Lifelore held.
Three and a half years of memories, weaving themselves one by one into the artefact, flaying Bertram’s psyche in the process.
Perspiration beaded on Wren’s brow, her throat aching from suppressing her own cries of horror as Hardim at last pulled the translucent strand from poor Bertram’s temple.
The screaming stopped. Bertram sagged in his bonds with a garbled sound. Shadows gathered in the hollows of his face, the awareness behind his eyes little more than a guttering candle flame.
‘Where am I?’ he croaked.
Wren’s heart was pounding so hard her chest hurt as she watched the Master of Lifelore pack away the terrifying object.
Hardim’s gaze was hard as it fell once more to the cohort before him. ‘This, dear novices, is the fate that awaits oathbreakers.’